"In the other room; she's mad," Gladys explained briefly.
Mrs. Morrison knew it would be useless to ask questions at this stage, so she only said she was sorry, and waited till Gladys left, then went to find her daughter.
Frances was lying on the bed crying convulsively.
"What is the matter?" her mother asked gently.
The child sat up, exclaiming between her sobs, "Gladys is so hateful. She said Emma cheated—and it's a story—and I'll never play with her again!"
"Oh, my little girl! I am so sorry," was all Mrs. Morrison said, as she left the room.
Sorry about what? Frances wondered as her anger cooled. Because Gladys had been so hateful? or was it because she had been in a passion?—but then she had a right to be angry. As she lay quiet for a while, feeling languid, now the storm had passed, a sense of shame stole over her.
Presently she went softly into the sitting room. It was growing dark, and her mother sat alone among the cushions of the couch; Frances nestled down beside her, and there in the firelight and the stillness she couldn't help feeling sorry, even though she still felt sure she had a right to be angry.
She wished her mother would speak, but as she did not, Frances asked, "Don't you think Gladys was very unkind?"
"She ought to have been very certain of the truth of what she said, before she accused any one of cheating."